


Liability

by shades



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Stiles, First Time, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Seriously why are all the adults they know so weird?, Stiles is Magic, oh boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades/pseuds/shades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your virginity has become a...liability,” Deaton says, and fuck him, he’s trying not to laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're All Fucked

“Your virginity has become a...liability,” Deaton says, and fuck him, he’s trying not to laugh. Stiles wondered how he got here, being lectured on the vestal quality of his nether regions, which lets be clear, could pretty much be vestigial at this point, while a Border Collie with indigestion stared him down from the corner.

“I - what? Are you kidding me?” Stiles - gesticulated, he didn’t flail - he’s got Italian roots somewhere, his people speak with their hands - and sent a metal basin clanging to the surgery’s tile floor. Bending down to retrieve it, he slipped back into a shelving unit, which rattled worryingly until he managed to stand up. “Uh, _tell_ me about it. Do you have any idea how horrifying it is to play Never Ever Have I Ever with Erica? She’s like, become a _were-slut_. It’s mortifying. I’m the only one sober no matter how long we play.”

Deaton coughed into his fist, and no, Stiles was _not_ fooled. He knew he was being laughed at. He’s just glad that Deaton, unlike _some people who he’s known since 1st grade and never told anyone about the time someone pooped himself at the planetarium field trip, lets see how long that lasts, asshole_ , had the common decency to pull him aside _privately_ before mocking his epic lack of a sex life.

“And, anyway - Anyway! What makes you so sure I’m a virgin? I could be up to here in lady parts.” Stiles ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, frowning. “Okay, I admit, that came out weird, but the point stands. Maybe you should be asking me if I need an STD screen or, or condoms or something. I could be having illicit underage unprotectedcrazykinkyorgy sex!”

“The only STD tests I have right now are for canine herpes and FIV. So unless you’re having some rather questionable -”

“Look, dude, no. I have used up all my bestiality jokes this month. Scott put me on limit after the whole Allison thing last week and, seriously? How was I supposed to know she could hear me? Scott and I were having bro-talk. Seriously. Private. Bro-talk.”

“Stiles.” That voice that meant _oh yes you will be taking your medication_. “You’re a virgin. The Rite of _Bás Fada_ last week could only be preformed by anyone pure of carnal -”

“Oh, I am _not_ pure of carnal anything, man, you should see my browser history-”

“And it worked when you preformed it. Ergo, you’re a virgin.”

“First of all, _ergo_ , really? Secondly, you didn’t tell me that! You totally narc’d me, dude!” Stiles leveled a finger at him. “You entrapped me into virginity.”

“Stiles...” Deaton pinched the bridge of his nose. The last time that’d happened Stiles had gotten hit with a surprise tranquilizer he totally didn’t need.

“Shocking though this may seem, I’m not particularly invested in your sex life. You’re in _danger_.”

“Yeah! Danger of dying a virgin!”

Deaton sighed and looked at him. “Actually, that’s pretty much on the mark.”

*

He grew up quick. He thinks maybe that’s what happened.

After all, he’s not painfully shy, he’s not hideous. But when other kids were twelve years old and sneaking first kisses, falling into big cliques of friends, Stiles...wasn’t. When Stiles was twelve years old, he was sitting in the oncology ward, making his mother laugh with the original Stiles Stiliniski One Man Show. When he was twelve years old, he shaved his head, because by that point the treatments had left his mother bald. When Stiles was twelve years old, he smelled like hospital all the time, like fear, exhaustion. Like sorrow.

Loss takes so much energy. And after she - and after, working on social graces seemed like so much wasted time, especially when dad had him going to some head shrinker who had him draw pictures and, on one memorable occasion, express his feelings via hand puppets.

Stiles wants, though, he wants so badly to be normal, to slide his hands over the smooth belly of a girl who makes him giddy, to lose himself in a group of friends. But maybe that was the kind of innocence you don’t get back so easily. There’s no unboiling an egg.

“This fucking sucks,” he said, once, to Scott when they were thirteen, playing wallflowers at the Spring Fling dance. It had been eight months, since.

And Scott, whose dad didn’t come around anymore, whose mom had coincidentally stopped walking into doors, who was just started to let his shoulders unwind after years of staying in his room and pretending that he couldn’t hear the shouting, the tears, said,

“Yeah.”

He grew up quickly, but he wasn’t the only one.

*

 

“So, what? You’re like, Deaton’s virgin sacrifice or something?” Scott’s eyebrows knit together in an adorable frown, looking like a dog who’s heard its master’s voice come out of the answering machine.

“Here, eat this.” Stiles slid a Fig Newton across the lunch room table. Positive reinforcement for inquisitive thinking, this is a thing they’re doing now. Stiles has watched a lot of TiVo’d Dog Whisperer in recent months.

“Thanks, man!” They’d been friends for a long time, but Scott’s big, stupid grin when Stiles fed him, like he’d just found a twenty in his pocket he’d forgotten about, made his heart swell, just a little.

“But seriously,” Scott says around a mouthful of fruit and cake and god bless Allison Argent for dealing with him. You know, when she wasn’t being a psycho friend-killer. “What’s with the Beware the Bad Touch talk?”

“Not so much a Beware the Bad Touch as Start a Campaign for the Bad Touch, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-touch me I wanna be dirty, posters, local TV ads, the whole nine yards.” Stiles stabbed at his mashed potatoes spitefully. If he thought that would work, it would have have been the first thing he did with his allowance money at age fourteen. He’d have gotten the blow up dancing things that every used car lot seems to have. There would have been a Virginity Blow Out Special.

“Why’s he care man? Why are all the adults we know so creepy and weird?”

“I _know_ , right? It’s not just me, is it?”

“I think Argent is doorbell ditching our place,” Isaac said, throwing his tray down beside Scott’s, looking a little more Green Day than normal. Stiles hoarded his remaining Fig Newtons closer. He hadn’t totally forgotten Isaac’s were-douche stage.

  Scott frowned. “Allison? No way man, we, uh, hung out last night -”  

“We all know what ‘uh, hung out,’ means, asshole, stop grinning like that. Also, dude, are you wearing eyeliner?”

  “Erica,” Isaac said darkly. “And no, not Allison. Her dad.”

“Chris Argent. Is doorbell ditching your abandoned warehouse.”

“They got an apartment.” Boyd slid placidly in beside Stiles. “It’s nice, there’s a balcony.”

“We have a grill,” Isaac said promptly. “You guys should come over sometime. Sometimes Derek lets us have beer. I’m trying to talk him into Showtime.”

“Can we talk about the hunter doorbell ditching your place? You realize he’s like, probably trying to confirm you live there so he can bomb you with holy water or something, right?” God, it is a fucking miracle any of them are alive.   

“That’s vampires, dude.” Scott gave him a bro-pat on the shoulder.

“It is a fucking miracle any of you are alive.”

“Hear you need to get your cherry popped, Stiles,” Erica said brightly, appearing out of fucking _nowhere_ , eyes and lips and legs like sex, leggings up to _here_ and that hot-evil look that had gut punched him first with Lydia at age seven when she wouldn’t share her crayons with him.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said. “There’s so many things wrong with our priorities. Also, what? Was Deaton a chatty stylist when he gave you your flea bath?”

“Cute.” She gave him a slow, appraising look, “I’d offer to help you out, but I don’t think-”

“Erica,” Boyd said mildly. _God,_ he was smooth.  She huffed out a bored sigh, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth with an intimidating click.

“You’re all fucked,” Stiles said with finality, surging to his feet with his lunch tray. He spared Boyd a look. “Maybe not you. You’ll be okay. The rest of you - fucked.”

“Least some of us are,” Erica sing-songed at him.

“Annnd thank you Miss Reyes, going for the low hanging fruit.”  

“Speaking of low hanging -”

  “No,” Stiles bit out, “Scott. Just. No.”


	2. Magic or Virginity

“What?” Stiles muttered, not looking up from his notes on US history, control+H’ing out of Chrome to keep his tabs from becoming public: Wikipedia: Electoral College, How to Ward Against Unseelie [Beginner], Hulu: The Colbert Report, Google Search: tips+to+lose+virginity. He’d been working at the kitschy coffee shop around the corner from home for the better part of an afternoon. They had free-wifi, free-refills, and a barista named Rory with a septal piercing and a tolerant smile.

Derek loomed over to Stiles’ table with a large coffee, black, in hand. The for-here mug was straight out of a thrift store bargain bin, shaped to look like a squirrel eating a nut. Its tail was the handle. 

Stiles smirked. Black-no-sugar and a leather coat only took you so far. 

“Yours looks like a jack’o’lantern, smart ass.” Derek sat hunched over in his chair, looking hunted. Hipsters made him nervous for reasons that Derek insisted came from living in Brooklyn for six years, but Stiles figured was because they used technology that confused and frightened him, like Mac books and jeggings. 

“Yeah, a spooky, _badass_ jack’o’lantern.” Stiles slurped loudly, reaching out for another pack of sugar. “Do you think if I mixed Redbull and coffee and NoDoze _and_ adderall I’d find the cure for cancer?”

“I think you’d spend the evening contemplating the meaning of your belly button lint.”  “That is a suspiciously specific prediction.” Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Can werewolves get high? Is there a special awesome variant of wolfsbane that can-”

“Stiles -”

“Oh my god, there totally is!” Stiles grinned and kicked back in his chair. “No, no, don’t tell me, I’m going to figure it out all on my own. Then I’m getting your puppies high and recording it with my phone and make a fortune on YouTube.”

“Don’t call them puppies.” He paused before taking another sip. “And you don’t make money on YouTube, even I know that.”

“Hey, next you’ll be using matches instead of iron and flint.”

“We got an apartment,” Derek said, sounding harassed. “And Laura and I didn’t exactly sleep in ditches, before.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said, flicking that piece of information away with a gesture. “Now, what do you want? I know it’s not coffee. You hate Intelligensia and American Spirits.” This was true, though Stiles had no idea how he’d come into that knowledge. Too many nights bent over the same chicken-scratch piece of vellum, arguing over whether that bit there was a coffee stain or another layer to the diagram - you pick up things about people. “Besides, you’re stealing all my action. Rory is smiling in a tolerant way at you. He was all my action before, big guy. All. Mine.”

Derek tilted his head at him and stared, one collar of his jacket popped, large hands, wirey with a little hair curled around his mug. It wasn’t the dead stare of two-years-ago Derek, the Derek who glowered and threw off pain and anger like a second shadow. It was - quiet. Contemplative. It made Stiles itch all over, like if he moved the sudden, humid tension would break and fade away, parting to make room for something far more simple and familiar. 

Not that there was any reason to be tense. It was just Derek being Derek, who fucked with people because sometimes he got bored and Showtime was a ripoff, anyway. The moment before Stiles broke and opened his mouth to fill the silence, Derek’s mouth twitched and he said,

“So. I talked to Deaton.”

“Oh, for fucksake.”

*

They’d come to a slow, haltering armistice over the past year. . The pack got arrested for public indecency once, when they categorically ignored Derek’s and then Stiles’ warning to just “Stay in on the Blue Moon, Jesus Christ, Scott, this is going to be like that time we took wine coolers to see The Dark Knight.” There had been solidarity in watching five of your buddies trail out of the drunk tank in borrowed, lock-up coveralls, hangdog expressions and all. Even Boyd looked a little ruffled.  
  

“Vernon,” Stiles had said with deep betrayal, hand to heart. “How could you?”

“You wanna explain this, son?” The good thing about the sheriff's life in Beacon Hills these days was that a group of teens, including Scott McCall and Jackson Whitmore, getting a little naked in the woods at night barely even made it to his to do list. 

Stiles had rocked back on his heels, face screwed up thoughtfully, glancing at where Derek was loitering in the doorway. His dad wasn’t pressing charges, and it was too easy, really.   “Umm...nope. They’re the ones that were getting all natural and freaky.” Stiles had frowned at them, lips pursed. “Bad dogs.”

There was that, and then the long, sticky summer Derek spent throwing the Betas around the forest while Stiles read books on blood magic, summoning, protection, drinking lemonade on the Hale House front porch. There was that winter when Derek showed up the Thursday after Christmas, an unwrapped box in tow, insisting it wasn’t a present, had said, 

“You need it,” gruffly, when Stiles stared down at the fine glass vials, the black marble mortar and pestle that was cool to the touch, the woad paints he’d admired at a weird little shop in town where Deaton knew the owner on first name basis. Stiles had gotten him an issue of Cat Fancy and a rubber bone, a joke.

“This is crystal,” he had said in a small voice, touching a decanter where it sat recessed in velvet. “I -”

“You need it,” Derek had said again, and left before Stiles could thank him. 

*

“Long story short, I need to lose my virginity because of reasons.” 

Beacon Hills was descending into autumn, shallow puddles and leaf litter everywhere, rain rolling through as thick banks of mist. Derek was wearing a soft looking scarf, knitted fingerless gloves. His breath misted in front of him when he laughed.

“Reasons?”

“Blah blah, you’re magic, Stiles, blah blah people know you’re a Bad Ass, Stiles, blah blah apparently there aren’t a whole lot of magical bad ass virginal werewolf-tainted people in the world and because of some magical moon-sun-bullshit-astrology this winter is prime supernatural shit show season, Stiles, and there’s all sorts of people that might want you for your supple virginal flesh. Blah blah _blah_.”

Derek rolled his eyes, strolling beside him. “You’ve made a reputation for yourself. That’s your fault.”

  “ _My_ fault? _Mine_? Uh, I wouldn’t have to worry about fucking murderous wood nymphs if it wasn’t for your furry ass, you know. My world would be completely absent of freaky, bark-molting conservationists. I will never hug a tree again, Derek. _Never_.”

“Deaton doesn’t have any idea who wants your - what was it? Supple virginal flesh?”

Stiles flushed hotly. “No. Apparently there’s sharks in the water. Succubi down in LA, reports of some frankly awesome sounding lesbian cult up in Portland. Warlock in Vegas. And I’m-” He waved his arms, “ _Exuding_.”

“Magic or virginity?”

“Shut up, you’re not funny,” but that wasn’t true, not even a little. Stiles’ smile was blown wide open, cheeks stinging in the cold. His hands were jittery with coffee and nervousness and proximity to Derek. Stiles dug a receipt out of his pocket and crumpled it vengefully before throwing it at Derek’s head. 

“I’m keeping this,” Derek said gravely, catching it without breaking stride. “This is mine now.”

*

“What do you expect me to do?” Stiles had demanded, beet red, torn between being proud at being notorious enough that his virginal innards could be important in someone’s creepy paranormal romp and mortified that he was talking about sex with a fucking veterinarian. “Expect me to go out, have irresponsible teenaged-”

“I never said irresponsible,” Deaton said easily, handing him a neat little bag with condoms, lube, even dental dams.  
 

“Who is going to sleep with me?” He had meant it to be flip, not quiet, confused. Not _weary_.

“Stiles...” 

“I just.” He’d spent a week in the forest looking for standing stones, walking in circles, getting up at 2am to slip out of his room undetected and get back again by five. The library he’d been researching in was across the street from the movie theater - he left at closing most nights, around eight pm, late enough that he could see couples from school slouching in line outside, kissing, laughing together, forging inside jokes, making stupid high school decisions about their stupid high school lives. It was - fine. Stiles didn’t have the attention span for most movies, anyway. 

“Look, doc, I’ve got a - thing, that’s not here.” He had waved the bag of prophylactics around uselessly, one absently rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I guess. Seriously.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if there are stupid mistakes, lemme know. Still unbeta'd.


	3. No Take-Backsies

It was a handful, the threaded needle clenched in his teeth, seam ripper held at an awkward angle, trying to coax the hem of Scott’s windbreaker open while perched in Derek’s surprisingly sunny breakfast nook.  It was like living in the Twilight Zone; there were decorations on the walls, an antique colander hanging by the door, some milky white porcelain sitting on a shelf above the sink.  It was - homey.  It was more than he’d expected.  

“How’s it goin, Betty Crocker?” Jackson dropped down across from him on the big, soft couch Boyd had found at a Salvation army, returning bright-eyed and victorious one afternoon like he’d taken down a stag.  Stiles rolled his eyes around a mouthful of needles, glaring down at the seam.  He’d found an old tome on _Iron Wards and their Uses_ in the dusty library in the the clinic’s basement and spent a week translating Old English into something that almost made sense in the age of Google and texting.  Scott was as good a guinea pig as any, and anyway, he was probably going to be the first one attacked by a vengeful monster of the week.  Or his girlfriend’s father. Apparently baddies had a weakness for the stunned-puppy look.

“That’s cooking, dumbass,” Stiles muttered, peeling back the lining and fishing a heavy iron charm from a bag at his feet.  They were - strange.  Deaton had tracked them down, assured him they came from a reputable source, but the heavy knotwork was mesmerizing, like staring at a MagicEye image and waiting for something horrible to appear.   He gingerly dropped it into the lining of the coat, flexing his fingers to shake off the lingering pins-and-needles that snaked up his arm.  

He spat the needle and thread into his hand.  “Was there anything you wanted, prom king? Or are you just here to admire yourself in reflective surfaces?”  
  
“It’s a free country.  This is pack property.” He stretched.  “Which, you know, I’ve got more of a claim to than-”

“Jackson.” Derek appeared slouched in his bedroom doorway, sleep tousled with yesterday’s gel and wearing the Wiley Coyote boxers Stiles had gotten him for his birthday.  Stiles tucked a grin down against his chest.  

“Go get the groceries. List is on the fridge.”  
  
Jackson rolled his eyes, crossed his arms.  “Oh, come on-”

Derek threw his keys at Jackson’s face, hard enough to make Stiles wince.  “Buy organic. Get moving.”

“Organic?” Stiles said, grinning when Jackson had stomped off.  

“It’s important,” Derek said, a shade too earnest.  “I like to support local farms.”

“You’re a freak,” Stiles said fondly, sewing up the last of the hem with a flourish. “Hey, try this on?  It’s supposed to protect against assholes and stuff, but I gotta make sure it doesn’t fuck with werewolves.”

“So you’re testing it on me?” Derek quirked an eyebrow at him, but caught the jacket when Stiles tossed it at him.  

“You’re only an asshole maybe twenty-percent of the time and, besides, when stuff back fires on Scott he looks like a puppy that just discovered the electric fence. I can’t do that, dude.  I have too weak a heart.”

“I can look like a wolf that wants to tear your throat out with my teeth,” Derek said sweetly, but he shrugged the jacket on.  It was kind of ridiculous.  Even with the were-muscles, Scott wasn’t nearly as tall or broad as Derek, so the windbreaker was tight through the shoulders, catching on the hard swell of his biceps.  He’d seen Derek shirtless enough times - the summer they spent working on the Hale House, Derek had acted like he’d forgotten the existence of clothing besides his worn-in, greased stained carpenter pants - but the catch of the fabric made Stiles avert his eyes with a blush.

Also, Derek was wearing was cartoon boxers and tube socks.  

“Please let me take a picture.”

Derek growled.  “It feels fine.  Kind of - warm? Like an electric blanket.  Should be fine.” He tossed the jacket back at Stiles' head.  “Do it to my jacket, too.  Did you make coffee?”  
  
“Hmm did I black out and agree to be your butler?  Because man, I’ve got to stay clear of those fucking seabreezes.”  
  
Derek dashed his hand back through his hair and flipped him the bird on his way into the kitchen.

*  

The thing was, Stiles loved magic. He wasn’t exactly conjuring up Succubi to take care of his embarrassing little problem or poking a stuffed T-rex full of needles to get back at Jackson for shoving him into a row of lockers, though oh, how sweet would that be.   Magic was - natural.  Well, supernatural, if you were going to be picky, but Stiles had always considered himself a fairly super guy.  And, anyway, he was seventeen years old and still occasionally checked his closet to make sure the dead chick from The Ring wasn’t in there.  Imagination wasn’t a problem, and belief started with vivid day dreams.  

He lost of lot of blind faith when he was fishing his mother’s long brown hair out of a clogged shower stall - she apologized, didn't cry while she was inexpertly tying a bandana around her head - he lost that, but the flash and sparkle of magic was a springboard.  It let him take some things back.

“Seriously, though,” Stiles gasped, spat blood onto the ground.  “Fuck magic.”

The witch grinned and leaned over, showing off a truly trashy amount of cleavage.  “Aw, baby, don’t hate.”  She scratched her nails down his cheek, tapping a staccato rhythm onto the bridge of his nose.  “It’ll all be over soon.”

“You’re trashy,” Stiles said, twisting away as best as he could with his wrists tied to a ceiling beam. “You’re trashy and predictable and your momma wears army boots.”  
  
Elvira pursed her lips and clutched her chest.  “Oh, how terribly hurtful, little boy.  I’m a good Samaritan, kitten.  I found you lost and wandering alone, unattended...” She _tsked_ and shook her head.  “I took you in out of the cold.”  
  
“You chloroformed me while I was doing a perimeter check, slutzilla.  Did you get that outfit at HotTopic?  Jesus Christ.”

“Now now,” she sighed, circling around him.  “It’s your own fault.” She snaked her arms around him, cupping his crotch with a pale, manicured hand.  “If you’re not willing to use the goods God gave you, well, then, you’re practically begging to be used up as a virgin sacrifice.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ve got coming.  Somehow that didn’t come up as a con for Abstinence in sex ed.”

“What _are_ they teaching you these days?”

“Algebra, physics, not a lot on goddess worshiping sex cults.  Write your senator, sweetheart.”  
  
Elvira laughed, deep and throaty.  She picked up an obsidian blade from a side table, running her fingers over the blade until dark blossoms of blood ran down her wrist.  She licked it up with a neat flick of her tongue.  When Stiles had come stumbling to consciousness, he was tied with his hands over his head in a musty, earthen floor basement.  The ground was covered in a spiraling mandala of chalk and brown-red highlights of dried blood and Elivra had been in the corner, fixing up her manicure and singing _Tick Tock_ absentmindedly.  

“You’re evil.”

“No, no, honey,” she said, checking her watch.  Waiting on midnight, Stiles thought.  It was dark out, judging by the lack of any light peaking around the garbage bags taped against the ground level windows near the ceiling.  He could hear the night-time chirp of crickets and, beyond that, the babble of a stream.  Probably one of the out buildings on McCoullagh’s farm, left to rot and ruin when the old guy passed on.  Miles and miles from Hale land.  

“I’m just better at this than you.  You shouldn’t play with fire, Stiles.  Not that it isn’t fun, of course.” She snapped a finger and let a sickly green flame dance on the tip of her forefinger. She clenched her fist, extinguishing it with a sharp crack. “You know, when I felt you pulling down all that energy last month...” She closed her eyes, grinning. “I knew you’d be easy game.  All those simple little spells, nothing more than trinkets.  Way to draw a target on your back, kiddo. You were just sharp enough to cut yourself.”  She stretched up, trailing the blade down the delicate line of Stiles’ forearm, blood welling up in its wake.  Stiles hissed out a breath.

“Such an easy target.  How was I supposed to help myself? A little boy, playing around with salt circles and runes.  All that untapped, _pure_ energy humming around you...”

“You’re a pervert.  This is this-knob-goes-to-eleven on the bad touch scale.  You do know my dad’s the sheriff, right?  There’s no way you’re getting out of town.”

She snorted, a real, honest to god, pig squealing snort, and flopped back down in a folding chair.

“I’ll be two states over by the time they find your bones.  Your spark is mine, now.” She spread her hands, a magnesium-white flare of light shining briefly in the palm of her hands, casting sharp shadows against the walls of the basement.  She caged her fingers around it, smiling faintly.  “Or, it will be, just a few messy details to take care of first.” She looked significantly down at the knife, then back at her watch.

“Just let me out.” Stiles sounded tired to his own ears.  “If you let me walk out now, there’s a good chance I can convince them to let you out of here alive.”

Elvira laughed, breasts bouncing merrily when she threw her head back.  “Oh, Stiles, honestly, what are you going to do?  I’ve got you caged in and pent up.  They’re not going to find you.  You don’t even have enough juice for a simple summoning spell.”

“No,” Stiles agreed, almost sadly.  “But the GPS tracker I’ve got in my shoe is working just fine. I’m sorry, lady, I did try.”  
  
She had about enough time to straighten in her chair before the door became an exploding confetti of splinters collapsing under the rage of Derek Hale.  Who, thankfully, hadn’t come alone.  Stiles heard windows being broken, saw Erica and Scott slide into the basement, realized that an arrow had sprouted in Elvira’s shoulder before she’d even started to scream.

There was a lot more blood, after that.  Thankfully there wasn’t a lot more screaming.  

“Weird,” Stiles said, as Derek leaned up over him to cut the rope holding him up with a claw.  The witch’s corpse had aged exponentially when she died, fading from young and plump to old to ancient, to a pile of shaking, half mummified bones and dust.  “She liked Ke$ha, Derek.  She was evil.”  
  
Derek caught Stiles when he stumbled, body wracked with exhaustion and pins and needles.  Derek lifted one heavy eyebrow, shirtless from the change.  Blood speckled his collar bones.  Collar bones which were very near Stiles mouth. 

“Jesus, Stiles.” Scott rushed over, enveloping him in a decidedly less sexually fraught embrace.  “Are you okay?  You really need to get laid, man.”

“I would so take more offense to that if you weren’t giving me puppy eyes right now.  No puppy eyes while we discuss my conquests.  My conquesting.  I think I need to start a crusade to end my virginity, but with less pillaging and genocide.  Well, unless we’re talking about pillaging my body, in which case, I am ripe for the looting, the barn door is wide open, but the horses have not yet gotten out, this is a full service Stiles Station -”

“I’m going to go wait outside,” Boyd said, and dragging Isaac and Erica out after him by their ears.    
  
“Your second is the best,” Stiles said.  “Do you think he’d de-hymenate me?”

“Do not proposition Boyd.”

“Dude, I think you need to have a Gatorade or something,” Scott said slowly, giving Stiles a long, worried look.  

“That sounds awesome.  I love Gatorade.  Also I’d like a slurpee and a piggy back ride.” He made grabby hands at Derek, whining.  “I was kidnapped and hung up by Sabrina the MiddleAged Bitch, and I feel woozy.  I’m hypoglycemic.  I could swoon at any moment.”

“Only if you shut up,” Derek said, crouching down so Stiles could clammer onto his back.    
  
“Nope, nope, nope, no promises,” Stiles said happily, burying his nose in the back of Derek’s neck, thinking, wow, this is going to be awkward when I’m not in the post-rescue endorphin haze.  But that was infinitely far away.  The night air opened around them, with Stiles held securely against the Great Wall of Derek, warm and safe.  The Betas were prowling around in the periphery, jumpy and protective.  It was a mile or more to the street, a good hour drive from home.  And Stiles was tired.  And safe.  And sopping up all the reluctant fondness Derek threw off when he thought no one was looking.  Stiles pushed his forehead into Derek’s neck, huffing out a sweet, sleepy noise. 

“Derek, Derek, hey Derek.” He dug the balls of his feet into Derek’s thighs like he was a pony.  When Derek gave a reluctant noise to indicate he was paying attention, Stiles whispered into his ear. “I promise not to seduce your second with my wiles.  Pinky motherfucking swear.”  
  
And he might, maybe, have heard Derek laugh in reply to that, but he definitely, _definitely_ heard the click of Allison’s camera phone before he fell forward into sleep’s sweet embrace.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek buying organic is totally inspired by Helenish's [In quiet, a favor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/532745), which everyone needs to read. 
> 
> Mostly I just wanted Stiles to petulantly demand piggy back rides. 
> 
> Don't be shy about letting me know about mistakes, still un-beta'd.


	4. We've Got Fun and Games

“So, there really isn’t an easy way to ask this, but will you go to The Jungle with me and get me laid?”

Danny stopped stripping out of his lacrosse gear and gave the distinct impression he was counting to ten, eyes focused front and center on his locker.  With a sigh, he dragged a towel over his face, turned towards Stiles, and gave him a quick, patient smile.    “Maybe this is a conversation we should have when we’re not half naked.  Put some pants on, Stiles.  Please.”

Stiles bobbed his head frantically, looking down at his jock strap and jersey with dawning horror.  

“Oh my god, please let me record this.” Jackson slouched artistically behind Danny, barely able to get the words out around smug, unattractive laughter.  He looked like a well groomed hyena. Which, Stiles had to give him credit for - it was a step up from the karma chameleon ensemble.  Luckily, some benevolent deity was listening to Stiles’ dire, internal litany of _goodgodwhathaveIdone_ because before Jackson could switch his iPhone’s camera on, Finstock appeared and plucked it from his hands.  

“What did we say about recording young, sweaty men while they’re naked, Whitmore?” He barked. “If Larry the Janitor isn’t allowed then by god you little shitheads aren’t either.  Larry was a good man,” he said viscously, stabbing Jackson in the chest with his phone.  “Strange man.  Probably harmless.  Never found any bodies in his backyard, is what I’m saying.  We still play poker some nights.”  
  
“Right, coach.” Danny gently took Jackson’s phone back, bringing Finstock up short.  His eyes darting around suspiciously, confusion dawning slowly in the crease between his brows.  Kind of reminded him a grown man tuning back into reality after a RedBull and sudafed bender to find himself on the fourth level of a McDonald’s playplace in Dora The Explorer Boxers and a cape.  

Stiles read things on the internet.  He knew.  

“Bullwinkle,” Finstock said, presumably to Stiles. “Stop being awkward.”

“Can’t, sir.” Stiles saluted. “Born this way, sir.  In fact, Lady Gaga - ”

Whatever point Stiles brain thought could be made by bringing pop culture into the conversation was thankfully averted by Scott, who had been remiss in his Watch Stiles And Steer Him Clear of Mortification duties.  He skidded into the locker room, arms pinwheeling, and started talking before he’d completely regained his balance.   “Um.  Sorry, coach.  You know, Aderall,” he said, grabbing Stiles by the crook of his arm.

“Where the hell were you when I decided this was a good idea,” Stiles hissed, letting himself be pulled aside while Finstock tore into Danny and Jackson anew.  

Scott raised his eyebrows at him.  “Dude, you have bad ideas almost constantly, I’m not getting paid to babysit. I only came cos I heard your heart do that ‘shit did I really do that’ thing it does.”

“How often do I do that?”  
  
“Um, four times since this morning?  I figured I should see what you were doing, since, you know, you, awkward, locker rooms, nudity.”

“I’m the brains in this operation, you know.” Stiles crossed his arms.  He was barefoot in his jockstrap and Jersey, a piece of damp, well-chewed lacrosse lacing hanging out of his mouth.

“Yeah, man,” Scott said, beaming, 110% dumb puppy that was still working out where it was acceptable to poo.

“Larry was a good man,” Finstock was saying doggedly, holding Jackson and Danny in captive audience.  Danny’s look of earnest understanding seemed to appease some live wire in his head and Finstock nodded, rolling his tongue around the inside of his lip. Behind them, there was a clatter, a groan, and - ah, yeah.  Greenberg’s head was stuck in his locker again.  Finstock pinched his brow savagely and stalked off.  

“Oh, for Pete’s - God DAMMIT Greenberg, it’s like I have to keep a bottle of vaseline velcroed to your ass.”

By silent consensus, the group took a deep breath and erased the last few minutes from their brains.  

“It’s just,” Stiles began, because he’d gotten himself into this kamikaze conversation and sanity, insanity, or thoughtful intervention was not going to derail his embarrassment now, “Like, evil witches and things are after my virginal body and like, guys are way easier to get into bed, right?  Not that I”m judging, I’m just saying, there’s probably less promise rings at Wet Boxer Brief night than there is at the Spring Fling with Chastity Praymore, right?  Not that you’re easy.  ‘Cause, man, with those cheekbones and abs you can totally be discerning - “  
  
“Stiles,” Danny said patiently, “I’m not offended by sheer force of will.  Put pants on.  Stop talking.  We can go to the Jungle this weekend.”

Stiles sagged in relief.  “Man, you’re like, perfect, why are you so nice?”

“| honestly have no idea.  Pants, Stiles.  Please.”

Stiles gathered the last of his dignity and fled.  

“Dude.” Scott shook his head and slouched against Stiles’ locker while he shimmied into his jeans. “You gonna go through with the gay thing?”

“Seriously, dude? I had a picture of Justin Timberlake in my room until I was thirteen.”

“I thought you liked him because Lydia did.”  
  
“He was shirtless.  In a pool.”

“I’m not saying I’m surprised.  It’s just like.” Scott’s face scrunched up in Bewildered Confusion #9, “Penises versus boobs, kind of a no brainer.  For me,” he added, an afterthought

Because they were good friends and Scott had never told a soul about the time Stiles had eaten two pounds of beets to see if it really turned his poop colors, Stiles did not suggest that there were, indeed, few things that weren’t no brainers for Scott.  

“I like to think of myself as a man of diverse tastes and wiles.” He pulled a face, “Anyway, you’ve been queer baiting Danny for months.”  
  
“It was nice when he led at the winter formal,” Scott said, a touch wistful.  

“We’re off topic,” Stiles said, “I need to put pants on.  And then I’m going to go get this wascally-werginity taken care of.”  
  
“Sounds awesome, man,” Scott said, lifting his fist to get bumped.  

*  


So, Danny was going, that was a given.  And because Danny believed that deep down, everyone wasn’t a snot-nosed douchnozzle of a tool school graduate, Jackson was coming along.  Danny had given him a sharp, sad look when Stiles grumbled about the _last_ time Jackson had joined them at the club, which left him feeling like vale-fucking-dictorian of tool academy, so he was just going to leave that one alone.    

Scott, riding the peak of his Supportive Straight Friend enthusiasm, turned up at Stiles’ house twenty minutes before they were supposed to leave with glitter hair gel and a shirt two sizes too small for Stiles.  Fifteen minutes into his Oh-god-no-terrible-idea-why panic, Lydia turned up with aftershave and, horrifyingly, eyeliner.  

By the time they’d reached the club, Allison had joined them and, icing on his failure cake, when they finally parked the entire fucking Scooby-Doo gang piled out of Boyd’s ancient mini-van in the spot next to them.

Well, the gang minus their fearless leader.  

“Why,” Stiles asked plaintively, giving Boyd big, pleading eyes.  

“Chill, man,” he said, looking amused. Isaac was jumping around like a puppy, all the douchy nonchalance melting away under plain, juvenile excitement.  Erica took a running start and dove for his shoulders, ending up getting a piggy back ride in a skirt far too short for such exploits. “You’re fine.”  
  
Stiles gave him a shifty look, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and shuffled towards the line at the door.  “Are you here as a body guard?” 

“I’m here because Derek gave me a hundred bucks and told me to get boy and girl wonder out of his hair tonight.” He jerked his head at Isaac and Erica, who were shyly letting themselves be drawn into conversation with Lydia and Allison. It was insane that they’d ever made it here. Years of being wrapped up in lunar cycles and sparks, hunters, alphas, monster-of-the-month clubs and the regular High School miasma had turned out to be a gentling process.  Between werewolves, blood on the ground, lines in the sand, screaming matches and stuttering sobs in the store room of Deaton’s clinic, they’d ended up caching each other’s secrets.  It wasn’t too different from everyone else in high school - some kids got abortions at 16, some got into IV drugs. Some kids helped bury bodies of kelpies at  crossroads when the ground was too frozen for normal, human arms to dig.   

Whatever, this was life at the Hellmouth.   Before you knew it, you were standing in line outside a gay club, fixing each other’s manliner and offering suggestions on how to artfully tear your tights.  

“Hmph.” Stiles shook himself and slouched hopefully into Boyd’s warmth.  “Whatever, man.  Is his Alpha-ness too busy knitting claw warmers to join us?”  
  
“I think he’s having a nice night in with re-runs of Buffy and a nice merlot,” Boyd said, deadpan.  He squinted and jerked his head towards the front of the line where Danny was leaning against the entrance and working over the bouncer, Tall Dark and Heavily Pierced. “Hey, heads up.”

After a moment, Danny turned and jogged back to them, a slanted, triumphant smile on his face.  

“C’mon, we can skip the line, no cover.”

Lydia arched her eyebrows at him, swanning to the front of the line.  “Nicely done.  He’s cute.”  
  
“He’s an asshole.” But there was a small, almost smug tilt to Danny’s mouth that meant been-there-done-that.  Jackson, who’d been left clutching Lydia’s oversized purse, lifted his fist for a bro-pound.

“Does that really matter?” Stiles heard himself asking, genuinely curious.  Danny swept him along without breaking stride.  

“Just - don’t be stupid, okay? Don’t get in anyone’s paneled van.  They don’t actually have a puppy or candy or etchings that you need to see. Okay?”

“What if I want to see their etchings?” But Danny was already gone, disappearing into the blitzing cacophony inside, gone between one puff from a fog machine and the next.  

“Everything’s gonna be fine, dude!” Scott clamped him on the shoulder, giving him a huge, non-virginal, guileless grin.  “You look hot! In a totally not weird way!  You’ve got this!”

Three exclamation points in a row, it was going to be that kind of a night. “Right, yeah, sure, Operation Cherry Popping Stiles is underway.”

“Aye-aye, Red Leader,” Scott said and gave him a solid, stumbling shove inside.   

*

“I’ll have a vodka cranberry, please!” Being heard over the tireless witticisms of Katy Perry wasn’t an easy feat, but the look the bartender shot him came across loud and clear.  “Ah, I mean, minus the vodka!  Just cranberry!  It’s good for preventing UTIs!  Not that I know personally, I just read Wikipedia a lot at 4am!”

Beside him, someone slid Jackson yet another shot of something pink and frothy.  He was holding court to a bevy of twinks and semi-creepy college-somethings who liked to grip his bicep when they laughed and elbow other people that totally have a right to be at the bar out of the way to get closer.  

“You’re not cute,” Stiles shot at him, lifting his chin and swaggering off to a chorus of hissed _bitch_ from Jackson’s harem.  

Erica, Stiles noted, was getting very well acquainted with someone in a ripped up Dr Who tee shirt and long, bleach blonde pigtails on one of the raised stages.  

“Isaac, how’s it goin, man?  Erica abandon you?”  
  
“Um, yeah, I guess,” Isaac said, bottom lip caught in his teeth.  He was worrying a glass in his hands, cheeks faintly pink.  “Someone bought me a drink.” Before Stiles could say anything, he added, “And _yes_ I saw the bartender make it.  His name is Lee.  He’s a Senior over at South Angers High.  He’s in the bathroom now.”

“I know him from the chess tournament circuit,” Boyd added, one hand tucked comfortably in the back of Scott’s jeans.  There had been an incident earlier with some overzealous Scott Admirers that had easily been scared off by Boyd’s Tall Dark and I Kill You.  Allison was currently sitting with Lydia at Frita Lay’s table, trading what was either tampons or lipgloss. “He’s a good guy.”

Isaac ducked his head, slurping what looked like a sup’d up Shirley Temple.  

“You are all hogging the good guys,” Stiles said, whipping his finger around at them.  “Stop it, be less attractive.” He paused.  “Scott, you look very comfortable in Boyd’s lap.” 

Scott shrugged. “He’s got very firm thighs.”

“I do lunges.”  
  
“That’s it!  I can’t do this.  You have all the sex.  I’m going to go sit in the car and listen to Enya and write about tonight in my feelings journal.”

“Drink this, stop whining, and get on the dance floor,” Danny said, appearing beside him with what appeared to be a double shoot of Jack Daniels.  “You’ve been moping around glaring at people all night.  I can’t imagine why your dance card hasn’t been punched.”

“That’s my thing.  It makes me mysterious.  Also, is getting your dance card punched slang for--”

“No.  Whatever you were going to say, no.”  Danny gripped his shoulders.  “Do the shot.  Get on the dance floor. Do this for the good of the pack.”

“Ugh!” Stiles threw back the shot and shuddered, full body.  “God, I hate you.”  


Danny shrugged and turned back to the dance floor.  “Not giving me a lot to work with, Stiles!”

“Stupid gay bar,” Stiles muttered, hands shoved in his pockets.  Boyd and Scott, adorable gay interracial couple that they were, moved out to a balcony to escape the heat of a hundred lubed up, twisting bodies, and Isaac had become one of the hundred lubed up twisting bodies with someone that had to be Lee.  Stiles slouched alone against the back wall of the club, shoved his hands in his pockets, and kicked at nothing in particular. 

“You know, I think you’re pulling off the whole grumpy twink mystique quite well.”

Stiles’ head snapped up, tongue darting over his bottom lip.  “I know, right?  And, full disclosure, I was totally glitter roofied tonight.  My Supportive Straight Friend glittered me against my will.”

The guy, who was pale and very broad through the shoulders, maybe twenty four years old, leaned in and pressed the pad of his thumb against Stiles’ cheekbone.  Stiles just - stopped, mouth open, the puff of his breath brushing the guy’s wrist.  He had day three stubble, almost a light beard, and dark brown eyes, and his gaze was drifting lazily from Stiles’ mouth to his eyes.  

“Got some,” he said softly, gently rubbing his thumb against his cheek and drawing it away.  A few specks of glitter caught the light and twinkled on the pad of his thumb.

“Guh.” Stiles was planning on listing invitingly into the guy’s personal space but even his limbs were stunned into paralysis, so he instead tripped over his own feet, knocked over a chair, and managed to avoid hitting the ground by -

-brown-eye’s arm, which was tightly wrapped around him from the side.

“I’ve only had cranberry juice.” Well, that was stupid. “Wait, no, I’m graceful, I’ve had so much vodka tonight, so much.  So much vodka, I’m hardcore.”

The guy licked his bottom lip, almost laughing.  “Well, I guess if you’re drunk then it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to ask you to dance.”

“I’m sober and I might take your limbs off, so I apologize in advance.”

“That’s a yes?”

Stiles slid their hands together, tugging towards the dance floor.  “Yeah, totally.  I’m Stiles.”

The guy’s lips were very soft when they pressed against the shell of his ear.  “I’m Eric.”

Stiles swallowed when Eric slid their hips together, mouth hovering loosely over his shoulder.  

Well.  Eric.  Close enough.  

 *

 So this is how sex worked, Stiles realized.  One minute you were grinding and worrying about where you put your hands and if you looked stupid and if your breath still smelled from the onion rings you’d had for dinner, and the next your body got shoved out of the drivers seat by pure instinct, and things like dignity and self preservation were left on the curb for a few laps.  

 “Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles stuttered out, because one side of his shirt was shoved up above his nipples and somewhere along the line Eric had gotten his hands in his pants and they were in one of the dark back rooms of The Jungle, but Stiles rational brain was pretty sure there were couples not an arm span away doing things that was very, very similar.  “Ohmygod, Eric, wow, um...”

Eric made a soft laughing noise against Stiles neck, sucking a slow, livid mark against his skin and - necks!  No one had ever told Stiles about necks before.  Necks and earlobes - was he a fetishist and just found out now?  Because sex was riding the express from the catch of Eric’s teeth in his earlobe and leaving spasming, nervous pleasure in broad streaks through his stomach.  

 “Woow,” Stiles said, because necks, earlobes, everything, Eric’s hands were in his boxers and this was so inappropriate.  Stiles was pretty sure he could get arrested for this. But, instinct was in the drivers seat, so he fisted his hands in Eric’s collar and dragged him in close, lifting his hips hopefully into the indulgent curl of Eric’s fist.  

 “You’re responsive.” Eric was grinning at him, undoing his own belt with one hand and ducking his head to swipe his tongue at Stiles’ nipple.  

 “Yeah, you’re - wow, you’re - you’re really attractive.”

 Eric was a college student on his way home for a long weekend, had stopped off in Beacon Hills for the night to party with friends.  He was lean, well educated for an art major, and gone tomorrow morning.  He was perfect.

 “Here,” Eric said, breath humid and inviting across Stiles’ collar bones.  He took Stiles hand and curled it around his erection, eyes fluttering shut when Stiles readjusted his grip and slid his fist up and down.  “Yeah, that’s it, you’re doin good, that’s it.”

Stiles never got why people might get off on being with a virgin, especially one as skittish and nerve-wracked as himself, but Eric was into it, into _him_  and that was fucking _awesome_.  Eric resumed his rhythm around Stiles dick and it all got really messy from there.  Stiles sneakers squeaked on the gritty linoleum floor as he tried to get traction and arch up.  Their fists bumped together in the humid shelter between their bodies, Stiles loud and nervous and drowning in the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of someone else’s dick jerking and twitching in his hands.  And - ohgod - the hands on him were broad, worn from carpentry, wirey with hair, the eyes that were nice but not the right color, the flash of teeth looked a lot like a slow, shared smile, better for having had to work at it for so long, for years now -

 “‘erek,” Stiles said, a warning gasped too late and with, thankfully, very little enunciation.  But, luckily, his shirt was pushed up to his armpits and Eric was good enough to ease him through his orgasm, only letting go of him when Stiles made weak sounds of over-sensitized protest.  

 “Wow,” Stiles said, his hand still and limp on Eric’s erection.  Orgasm had shut down all of his non essential processes, like the mutual part of mutual masturbation.  And breathing.  “Hey,” he said, grinning bright, sunnily - non virginally! He fisted his fingers around the flared head of Eric’s dick just to watch his eyes slid shut.  Stiles mouthed messily at the corner of his jaw.  “Come here.”

Five minutes later, just as Eric was getting sloppy, loud, cursing into the curve of Stiles’ neck, hips moving in a way that could in no way be mistaken for something else, Scott appeared in the doorway and screamed like a girl. 

 Best loss of virginity _ever_.

*

If his father noticed his darling, only son smelled like booze, smoke, and spunk the next morning, he was gracious enough to keep it to himself. Momma Stilinski had been nineteen and 8 months pregnant at her own wedding; the sheriff didn’t have any fingers to point.  

“You’ve got company, Stiles.” His dad dragged the covers down the bed and opened the blinds, flooding the room with harsh, midmorning sunlight.  

“Tell them I’m dead,” Stiles groaned, burrowing his head under pillows.  He was Stiles Stilinski, he had touched another man’s penis, and the world was his for the taking!  ...domination would begin as soon as his mouth stopped tasting like regurgitated strawberry daiquiri and Axe body spray.  

“You smell like a lot of things,” a familiar voice drawled from his bedroom door, “But dead isn’t one of them.”

“Daad,” Stiles moaned.

“See, he’s up.” Stiles’ father sounded far too chipper.  “You know what I think he needs today?  Some nice, invigorating heavy labor.  You need pieces of wood dragged across your yard, right?”

“Always,” Derek said, deadpan.  

“Great! I’ll be home around dinner, Stiles.  Have fun today!”

“You’re getting steamed iceberg lettuce and warm water for dinner!” Stiles called after him.  He collapsed back into the bed, flopping his hand in Derek’s general direction.  

The bed dipped and Derek settled against the head board, leaning across Stiles to deposit a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand.  

“Redeye, triple.” He nudged Stiles until he turned over.  “We can get you Gatorade on the way to the house.”  
  
“Ugh, are you baby sitting me?”  
  
“No, I just dropped by to offer my congratulations.  Your father was the one that seemed intent on punishing you.”  
  
Stiles felt a flush start around his ears and crawl slowly down his torso.  He fidgeted until he was shoulder to shoulder with Derek against the head board.  

This was bro talk.  Stiles could do this.  He needed practice for college.  There was no reason at all that it should be weird for them to talk about this.  He scooped up his coffee and blew on it.

“You’re congratulating me but you didn’t bring me presents?  I’m entering another phase of my _life_  here, dude.  I’m disappointed in you.”

Derek gave the coffee a significant look.  “I forgot to pick up a training bra and tampons for you on the way over.”  His nostrils flared and he leaned away.  “Whoever he was, he smells like a douchebag.”

The blush heated to new extremes.  Stiles curled in on himself.  This was not a conversation they were having.  It was Eric the Material Arts Student, part time barista, who was into free love enough to give a gangly 18 year old a handjob in the back of some podunk town’s only gay bar.  This was reality they were talking about, this wasn’t one of a dozen fantasies in which Derek randomly professed his long burning desires and screwed Stiles over a series of increasingly unlikely surfaces.

“Um, yeah, sex totally lives up to the expectations!” He cracked his neck, taking a messy slurp of coffee.  “Which you know, of course.  Not all of us have had women throwing themselves at us since freshman year of high school, dude.”

There was a beat of silence.  Stiles busied himself trying to get coffee into his blood stream as fast as humanly possible without ending up at the hospital for burns.  

“Anyway, I am owed a day of leisure since I gave my flower away for the good of the pack.” Silence. “Derek?” He nudged his elbow in his ribs.  “Dude, you okay?”

Derek startled, blinking back from a thousand yard stare, looking uncharacteristically flushed.  Stiles frowned.  “What?  What’s a matter?  Dude, I wanted to give my flower away.  It wasn’t  only for the good of the pack.  I hated that flower.  It sucked.”

“What? No, it’s nothing.” Derek took a deep breath and visibly shook himself.  “It’s fine.  What were you talking about?  Do I want to know?”

“Nothing.  Just, I’m a Real Boy now.  We should probably work on your car and talk about football and sex and our feelings. 

“Halfway through that sentence it turned into a Sex and the City movie.”  He shifted under Stiles look of surprise.  “Laura, okay?  She made me watch with her.”

“Suuuuure.”  Stiles grinned at him and threw his legs out of bed, stretching until his back popped.  Behind him, Derek made a noise like he’d choked on a sip of coffee.  Stiles frowned at him over his shoulder.  

“Calm down, grumpy.  We’ve got this.  Everything’s gonna be fine.”

*

_48 hours later_

So, sex cults were a thing.  

That was good to know.  Stiles would write it down in his feelings journal if his hands weren’t bound to his ankles and he wasn’t choking down some thick, cloying sap that left a pleasant numbness as he swallowed it down.  A robed figure wearing a horrific, varnished mask let out a pleased noise.  The much less clothed, much more intoxicated chorus dancing around the bonfire began chanting at a louder, faster rate.

“No, izza mistake.” Consonants were hard to pronounce.  “Nodda virgin.  Eric.  He did it.  Penises touching, I did that.”

“Yes, Derek, we know,” the man said, drawling slowly.  The mask was easily two feet broad and four long, the screaming maw of its mouth carved into an awful contortion, the dull wooden eyes blank and unseeing.  Stiles’ vision browned out once, twice, and then he could barely drag his eyes back open. The man’s words sounded distorted, like they were swirling around a drain as he tried to listen.     
  
“We were hoping that that would be the case.  Stop fighting, Stiles.  It’s really very pleasant if you just let go.”  
  
“Stupid tree roofies,” Stiles slurred, sagging in his restraints, heart beating in an off kilter staccato.  

Behind him, the heat of the fire grew stronger and the chorus reached a fevered, screaming pitch.

_Spoke too soon_ , he thought, and then real coherency went away for a while.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, as ever. Sorry for the long delay! Life was crazy and the chapter felt like it was stuck in mud. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that's commented and kudosed and everything! Ya'll rock my socks, totally. 
> 
> <3


	5. Go the F*ck to Sleep

It was dark. Stiles blamed his puny, human eyesight and the new moon, not to mention the sickly, anise flavored tree sap that stained his tongue and the back of his throat. His vision pulled and snapped like silly putty, sending him to his knees with seasick dry heaves more than once. It was dark and, through the twiggy canopy, the stars were so bright they could have been holes poked in a drop sheet that was lit up like Christmas on the other side.

Down below on humble earth, it was dark enough to be a tangible, living thing, snaking between Stiles’ legs and tripping him as he limped through the underbrush.

He stumbled until his shoulder collided with a tree trunk, sending waves of sensation through his back and arm. It wasn’t pain, not really. His feet were damp and tacky with what he logically knew was blood, but pain was somewhere else for now. The drug, the tree roofie - it had confused his system, every cut and bruise from the evening was singing happily, drunkenly. The brush of the bark on his cheek was a willing caress, the whole world was open arms that he could fall into, that he could spread his legs for, that could get rid of pain and let him drift for a while...

Stiles snarled, trying to shove himself to his feet. On this, high as he was, the fucks around the bon fire could vivisect him and he’d pant for it and beg for more. As if the world wasn’t screwed up enough with your average raping scumbags, he got the sexual predators of the supernatural kingdom, awesome. Succubi were probably next.

 _Oh, please fucking christ, I didn’t think that_ , Stiles thought desperately. He stumbled ahead, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, concentrating. Save succubi for some other time, like never. Never would be a good time for succubi.

Predawn October mornings were cold, especially when you were only wearing boxers tacky with blood and, well, certain splotches where his body had betrayed him and thrown a sticky little party in his pants. He was cold, it was dark, he was bleeding, but his body subverted every rationale attempt to get to the road. Each time he took a step his briefs ghosted over his impossibly present erection, reminding him with a too-tempting slide of cloth that he could be jerking off right now, that if he hadn’t thrown Lead Raper’s magic mask in the fire, he’d be at the bottom of a hot, writhing orgy ball. Probably only to be sacrificed on burning embers for his troubles, but there would have been orgasms and slick mouths and the live, twitching feel of a dick against his side, and he could have died happily, he could have -

-died. Right. He could have died. In the distance, Stiles saw the glide of headlamps as they slid along a road. Almost there. He pressed the heel of his hand against his dick and groaned, eyes watering up with the good/bad/screaming necessity of his body - this wasn’t _fair_ , he’d be the one eighteen-year-old to keep a three hour erection and there wasn’t anyone to impress it with, save a few cult members that had cut and run screaming into the forest when Stiles threw His Rapiest’s mask into the flames, revealing a face so marred and puckered with scars it was impossible to be sure the man had started out as human.

“I’m not a viiiirgin,” he complained, taking a deep, shaking breath. His looked balefully at his dick and set his sights on the road ahead, trying not to think about trying to catch a ride while half-naked and sporting a proud and insistent installation of nature’s coat rack.

He was maybe three steps closer to the road when a noise slid through the dawning light, one that his instincts had rewritten his reactions to in the past three years; a long time ago, his ancestors had lit fires to keep the wolves at bay, but Stiles crumpled back against a tree and let the sweet surge of relief pool up around him.

“Here,” he coughed out, and then went on louder, his blood and his dick and his dignity be damned. “Derek, I’m here!”

He knew it was Derek, he told himself later. Because of the tenor of his call, the way it traveled, obviously an Alpha’s. It wasn’t because he’d been hoping it was.

***

Things went grey for a while, and when Stiles resurfaced, he was sitting astride Derek’s lap in the same square foot of forrest he’d been in the last time the lights had browned out.

Derek’s eyes were wild, half feral, and his bottom lip was swollen, like someone had punched him. His hands were very tight on Stiles’ hips and he was saying Stiles’ name over and over again, like he was sending out an all bands distress call.

“Back with me?” He cocked his head up at Stiles expectantly.

“You’re naked,” Stiles breathed, and it seemed pretty natural that his arms were draped around Derek’s shoulders, his finger nails tracing over his collar bones and neck. Derek flinched away from his hands, tried to catch them and drag them away. “Why are you naked?"

 “Alpha form,” Derek gritted out, “We found people milling around out there half-naked, they had no idea where they were. Hey, stay with me, Stiles. What the hell did you do?”

“Someone got a bad case of the rapes, tried to take it out on me, I threw his weird mask in the fire and he screamed and all his orgy-ites scattered like roaches,” Stiles said, and leaned back in - that’s right, Derek hadn’t been punched. Stiles caught his bottom lip between his teeth and sucked, tilting his pelvis against Derek -

Oh, wow.

“Oh, wow,” Stiles said, and Derek growled.   “We’re. Going. To Deaton’s.”

“We’re both pretty naked, dude. Maybe we could just -” He trailed his fingers down Derek’s stomach, through thick, wiry hair - he had so much _muscle_ on him, god, it wasn’t fair.

“You’re. Drugged.” Out on the road, a car was approaching, shrieking around the bends on what sounded like two wheels. Stiles ducked his head, mouth hovering close enough that they were sharing breaths, somehow more intimate than kissing. Derek shoved him off into the dirt and stood, tipping his head back to howl. The car skidded to a stop, pulled over in a roadside ditch. Doors banged open and shut, half-familiar voices called out.

“Whoozit?” Stiles said, standing and swaying into Derek’s body. Naked, steam rising off him like he’d just stepped out of a bath, eyes severe and flickering red. Standing off to the side, Stiles wrapped his arms around himself and felt shudder knock through him. It had been a long time since he’d eaten. Up ahead, the rescue party tromped loudly through the underbrush, wolfed out to their weird, knuckling run.

Derek, apparently taking pity on him, gently folded his arms across Stiles’ back, rubbing up and down his spine perfunctorily.

“Scott. Boyd.” He paused before adding, “Jackson.” 

“I’m not a virgin.” This seemed important to remind the world of. He drew his fingers up and down Derek’s flanks, whining pathetically when he was nearly shoved away again.

“Keep it together, Stiles,” Derek muttered, a note of tension straining his words. “You’ll thank me for it later, believe me.”

“You’re really nice to look at,” Stiles sighed, hooking his chin over Derek’s shoulder, letting his body collect ever nanobyte of data it could. Derek’s hands were calloused and he smelled gently of perspiration and dirt. He was surprisingly deft when he rubbed his hands up and down Stiles’ back, trying to chase the goosebumps off. He was a big guy, Stiles thought, he must have learned to be gentle early.

“And you’re literally a bloody mess.”

“Don’t worry, I got the bad guys.” Stiles rubbed his face in the dip between Derek’s clavicles, and patted his ass gently. Derek made a sound so low and threatening it made Stiles diaphragm vibrate. He slid his hand back onto Derek’s hip. “Don’t worry. I’m a bad ass. Also, magic. Also, not a virgin.”

Twenty feet away, the three musketeers broke the last line of brush between them and skidded to a halt. It got noisy pretty fast: shouts of hysterical OHMYGODs (Scott), hysterical laughter (Jackson), and one cooly arched eyebrow accompanied by a relieved _good to see you safe and sound_ (Vernon, be still his beating heart).

Boyd dropped a blanket around Stiles shoulders and tossed a pair of cargo pants at Derek.

Scot was redfaced and trying to walk backwards with his hands over his eyes. “Ohmygod, are you - seriously? What were you guys doing? Stiles? Stiles, what were you guys -”

“He was suffering from _exposure_ , and he’s _drugged_ ,” Derek bit out, trying to bat away Stiles’ wandering hands ineffectually. “I was just trying to keep him warm until you idiots -”

“Oh my god, this is amazing.” Jackson wheezed with laughter. “This is the plot of every gay porn ever-”

“Except the part where Stiles narrowly avoided getting raped and is covered in what looks like a few pints of his own blood,” Boyd said mildly, effectively shutting Jackson up. God, Boyd was dreamy. Stiles fluttered his eyelashes at him.

“We’re going right now,” Derek said, not even trying to stop Stiles from nosing at his hair line. He had pants on now. That was a shame. “Call Deaton.”

“I can’t believe this,” Scott whined.

“ _Scott_.”

“I’m calling! Jeez.”

“I am not a virgin,” Stiles said sternly, but Derek just tucked the blanket around him tightly and, after a moment’s consideration, swept him up in a bridal carry.

“Not a word, Jackson,” Derek said, voice too low to be entirely human. Still, he let Stiles sigh and tuck his head under his chin.

“I got the bad guys this time, this totally doesn’t count as a rescue.”

“You did good.” Derek’s voice was quiet, brushing over his ear, meant just for him. Ahead, Scott was on his cell phone, Jackson was sliding behind the steering wheel, and Boyd was grabbing what looked like a First-Aide kit out of the trunk. Stiles let out a puff of air and let his eyes drift shut.

He resurfaced when they crunched into the clinic’s parking lot. Jackson was stiff behind the wheel, managing to look bitchy by the way he eased the Porsche into park. Derek and Stiles had the back seat to themselves, Stiles so draped over Derek that he was barely touching the seat. The realization came with a dull flash of embarrassment. Great, the first heralds of sobriety, today was going to suck.

“You really like sitting in Boyd’s lap,” Stiles said, voice scratchy. Scott glared at him from where he was perched in the front seat, squirming around until Boyd pinched him and shoved the front passenger door open.

“You were getting handsy back there,” Scott muttered sulkily.

“Wimp.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Douche.”

“Asshat -”

Derek snarled. “I swear to god, it’s not too late to drive back and leave you in the forrest.”

“Grumpy,” Stiles said, letting Derek haul him out of the car and pulling the blanket primly around him.

Day had come during their drive back into town, people were out walking dogs, jogging. If anyone noticed a group of guys darting into the veterinary clinic with a naked dude, no one looked perturbed about it.

You stay classy, Beacon Hills.

***

  “He’s been drugged.”

Derek had his arms crossed over his chest, glaring as Deaton shined a pen light in Stile’s eyes.

“Wow. It’s almost like you’re a doctor.”

“Witch doctor.” Stiles swung his legs and grinned. Someone had given him a lollipop. It was pink flavored. He slurped it happily. “Which bewitching witch doctor could he be?”

“Yes, thank you Stiles. Very helpful.”

“Aaaaaaah,” Stiles said, opening his mouth helpfully and sticking out his tongue. Deaton was on the other side of the surgery, putting away his instruments. He looked at Stiles over his shoulder and gave him one of those patient, kind looks that made Stiles feel like a puppy that had lost bladder control in the waiting room.

“That won’t be necessary.”  Stiles gave a _suit yourself_ shrug and listed into Derek’s side hopefully.

Derek sighed and wrapped an arm around him, tugging him against his side. “Any idea with what?” 

“Nothing that won’t be cleared out of his system in a few hours.” Deaton leaned back against the counter. “I’m not familiar with it, but from how he’s acting, it’s biological, not supernatural.”  Stiles had his face buried in Derek’s armpit. He had no idea what they were talking about. He felt great.

“Any the...people that kidnapped him?”

“Sex cult,” Stiles said helpfully.

“Probably not a cult,” Deaton said, turning away to pick a beaten pamphlet up from a side table. “An individual and...an artifact.”

He opened the yellowed pages to a diagram of a familiar, screaming face.

“That’s it.” Stiles scrunched up his nose. “His Rapiest was wearing it. Not his best look.”

“I thought it was mostly superstition,” Deaton said, crossing his arms and leaning back against a counter. “Many cultures hold that there are physical manifestations of their deities during special celebrations or rituals. Transubstantiation for Catholics. Other cultures believed that by donning different masks the bearer actually became a vessel for various spirits. Poses interesting anthopological questions -”

“ _Deaton_.”

“-but I digress.” He gave Derek a tight smile. “This artifact was described by some of my...predecessors starting around 100 years ago, a bit late for it to be genuine derivation from native religions. From what I can tell, it was assumed to be a fake, introduced into the blackmarket trade of items from Egypt and the rest of Africa that was popular in Europe around the turn of the century. An account from an individual like myself from the time went to some trouble to track its source.” He looked up from the sepia pamflet. “It was apparently carved from a remnant of a pyre that burned a Moroccan man accused of being a warlock, after the bodies of several virgin town girls were found empty of blood in his lodgings.”

“Haunted mask?” Derek said.

“Sounds like that Jim Carey movie.” Stiles tugged on Derek’s shirt. “Can we go home, I’m tired.”

“Likely. Whatever powers the warlock was tapping into, I don’t know, but it seems likely that it took hold of whoever hands it fell into, maybe even empower them to keep others in their thrall.”

“Stiles burned it.”

“Yes, but I’d have some of your pack go out and inspect the ashes, just to be safe. This thing has been bouncing around all corners of the world for a hundred years or more. I’ll look into what we can use to keep it down, just in case.”

“Salt and burn the bones,” Stiles said. “Hey, can we watch Supernatural? Castiel and Dean need to get their love on, seriously.”

Derek arched an eyebrow at Deaton. “Is he speaking in tongues?”

“No.” Deaton smiled. “Just basic cable. Get some gatorade in him. Unless you want to explain to the sheriff why his son’s on ecstasy, you might want to keep him at your den.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “We know why the guy came after Stiles?”

“Probably the same reason the warlock went for the virgin town girls.” He paused, frowning. “I’m concerned that we haven’t found the wearer yet. It’s not clear from the papers I’ve found to what extent the possession endures. He could be waking up on a roadside somewhere right now, wondering where he is -”

“Or he’s still out there looking for Stiles.”

“He was scarred up.” Stiles’ eyes felt very heavy. He spoke around a jaw cracking yawn. “Kiinda hard to miss.”

“Maybe.” Deaton shrugged. “Your abilities let you see a little deeper than the average person, Stiles. You might have just been seeing shadows of the mask’s taint personified as physical scaring.”

“Hah, taint.” Stiles struggled to his feet. “Please? Home? You guys don’t need to worry. I’ve been around the block. Little Stiles has finally been put into play. I’m a regular Casanova. Old dead haunted mask creeper is a little too late getting his hands on my bod.”

“I’ve got some thoughts on that too,” Deaton said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ve got my patients coming in now and some more reading to do.” He glanced over at Derek. “I’ll come by this evening, fill you in on whatever I’ve found.”

“Wait,” Derek said, eyes widening, “You don’t have anything for him? An...antidote?” He caught Stiles wrist in one hand, tearing it away from his pectoral. Stiles made a soft, put out noise.

Deaton gave him an incredulous look. “I don’t really carry anti-libido enhancing drugs as part of my normal arsenal. Short of a horse tranquilizer -”

“That sounds good,” Derek said, pinning Stiles’ arms behind his back, quietly tolerating Stiles nosing along his jaw line. “We’ll take some of that.”

Deaton made a noise that was almost a laugh. “Take him home, get fluids in him. He’s fine. Call me in the morning.”

“I am not putting pants on,” Stiles announced, standing and pulling the blanket tightly around him.

“Thanks,” Derek said tightly, watching Stiles swan out of the room. He rubbed a hand down over his face. “You’ve been such a huge help.”

*

The next time awareness slunk in around the edges of thought, Stiles found himself in a pair of familiar sweats, nestled in the center of a bed far too big to be his own. He turned over, and before he could make a noise of confusion, a shape appeared in the doorway, blotting out late-afternoon sunshine.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Stiles coughed out, “Kind of. Can you do me a favor and give me a mercy killing? You don’t even have to make it quick. Really just anything to avoid having to talk about the past twenty-four hours.”

Stiles buried his face in Derek’s pillows, breathing them in. He might not have a wolfed out nose, but the familiar smell of Derek’s detergent, his pomade, the sweet remnant of sweat, calmed him down. Actually biological or psychosomatic? Stiles was pack, he knew that much. It wasn’t clear how deep some ties ran.

The bed dipped when Derek sat on the edge. Had he brought girls back here, to his den? Laid them out on his sheets, let them soak up his aura of strong-and-safety that Stiles didn’t want to admit he relied on more than once? Had he let them stay the night, made breakfast for them in the-

“Calm down,” Derek murmured, pressing his hand to Stiles’ forehead. “Your heartbeat’s through the roof. You’ve made it this far without puking on my sheets, don’t screw it up now.”

“Sorry.” Stiles scrounged around under his touch, butting his head against his palm like a cat.   “Guess it’s still working its way through your system,” Derek said, a worried pinch to his brow.

Stiles flushed brightly, fingers knotting in his borrowed sweatpants - Derek’s, the ones that hung low on his hips when he was fresh back from the gym, lounging around the apartment without a shirt on, trying not to grin at them when Stiles lost miserably to Isaac at Wii tennis.

“Yeah,” he croaked miserably, “That must be it.”

There was silence, then, “Does it hurt?”

Stiles rolled his shoulders, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I mean, not much. Before it was -” Like fire, like a full body cramp, like he was drowning under ice and the only way through it was with the sweet touch of another body, a mouth, a hand, anything, anything to keep him alive, above water, breathing - “Before it was worse. Now it just feels like I’ve got the flu. It’s better when you...”

Stiles trailed off miserably. Where was Scott? They could have a heteronormative cuddle. Sure, it had been a few years, but Scott was his buddy. He’d even let Scott be the big spoon.

But Derek was huffing out a breath, moving around, and then, moments later, there was a rush of cool air as someone lifted the covers and a dip as they slid into bed.

Derek’s hand spread warm and heavy and perfect on the small of Stiles‘ back, his thumb rubbing rhythmically over the raised bump of a mole. Stiles’ whole body went fluid, miserably content and thrumming. How much of it could possibly be the drug?

“You kept me up all night anyway,” Derek explained, sounding less pissed off than he should have. “You better not snore.” 

“You better not chase rabbits in your sleep.” But his heart wasn’t in it. Before he could let his rational brain over process it and cringe away, he rolled back into Derek’s touch, securing himself safety under the pressure of his arm. He sighed out audibly.

“Sleep.”

It was a late afternoon bedroom, full up with the smell of safety and home. Higher brain function could wait for the other side of sleep. Stiles curled his legs, tucked his head into the soft give of the pillows, and drifted with Derek’s arm a warm anchor across the small of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God help me if I know how to fix breaks between paragraphs, rich text and HTML have both failed me. 
> 
> Sorry for the long delay! Insert RealWorld excuses here. 
> 
> Thank you for all the loves and feedback! And, as they say on all manner of public trans, If You See Something, Say Something. Feel free to ping me with beta-ly concerns. 
> 
> <3


	6. belief in the (s)extraordinary

They ended up going over to Deaton’s place late that evening.  Stiles slept for a long time, woke at twilight not knowing what day it was, whether the sun was coming up or going down, if he was feverish from the drugs or it was just Derek’s heat bleeding into his skin.  He touched Derek’s forearm carefully, the pad of his thumb brushing the wiry hair on his wrist, and made a soft noise of apology when Derek snorted against the back of his neck, stubble brushing over the private, humid space at the base of his neck.

“I should. I should shower,” he said, sliding out of bed.  He smelled like forest dirt and flea bath.  Derek flopped onto his stomach and gestured at the bathroom door.

“There’s spare toothbrushes in the cabinet.”

“Right.” Stiles swallowed.  “Of course there are.” He was briefly terrified that he’d open the cabinet to find evidence of Derek’s grown up sex life, some kind of fancy lube, a half empty box of condoms, ribbed for her pleasure, but there was just shaving cream, razors, and a few unopened tooth brushes.  Stiles sighed and slipped into the shower, and did not think about Derek in here naked, soaped up, sleepy with morning wood and jerking off slowly, unrushed, while making his grocery list in his head.  

 *

Deaton’s place was a modest split level with a nice yard, big airy windows, and a gourmet kitchen where he laid out vegetables and hummus dip when he invited them inside.  

“This is disappointing,” Stiles said, gesturing with a half eaten carrot stick.  “I was hoping you lived in a dank basement, and had, like, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling and a book with an eye on it.  Maybe a couple familiars.” 

Deaton arched his eyebrows and dropped his hand down onto the head of an absurdly large Irish Wolfhound that followed him around like an imprinted duckling.    
  
“Sorry to disappoint.  Sylvester’s faithful, but he doesn’t talk.”

“Sylvester? Seriously?” 

“I miss dogs,” Derek said, letting out a sigh. He was bottle feeding an English Bulldog puppy on his lap, carefully holding her in the curve of one hand, thumb absentmindedly stroking her stomach while she ate.

“I really need to take a picture of this,” Stiles said, “This is porn.  Next you need to go brush down some horses without a shirt on. We’ll make a calendar.  It’ll be like that photo of the Hoff with the nudity and the puppies, only less creepy.” He paused.  “Maybe less creepy.  I think it’s probably hard to pull off nudity and puppies without sinking the needle on the creep-o-meter.”

Deaton cleared his throat.  “Stiles, stop talking.  Derek, she’ll be available for adoption in another few weeks, if you’re interested.  She needs her shots and -”

“I’ll talk to Isaac-”

“Dude, you love strays, Isaac needs a little sister or something, this’ll be perfect-”

“Maybe we should talk about last night.” They both fell silent, Derek glaring down at the puppy, Stiles blushing violently at an air-conditioning duct. Deaton sighed.  “According to a police report I intercepted, a vagrant was held in the drunk tank last night.  He was identified as Norman Decker, reported missing from Chicago eight months ago.  Wasn’t what you would call a savory guy back then, connected to a few gangs with occult affiliations.  At the time of his disappearance, he appears to have been of sound mind and body, but...”

“Not so much now?” 

Stiles had talked to his dad on the way over.  The guy in the drunk tank was raising hell at the station, gibbering and crying and screaming in his sleep.  The Sheriff was trying to place him in state psychiatric care, but it wasn’t easy going.

“He’s deteriorated rapidly.   Over time, the mask likely replaced all of his humanity with its own energy and, with it destroyed, his mind is kind of like a dry socket. I doubt he’ll be a threat. I assume you looked over the clearing?”

“Sent the betas out,” Derek said, lifting a shoulder.  “They scattered the ashes, spread around some salt.  Said they didn’t smell anything off.”

Deaton looked half-way impressed.  A year ago, Derek wouldn’t have trusted the puppies to take care of it, would have shouldered them out of the way, gone alone, seen for himself, and shared his findings with no one.  Maybe summarize in bad LJ poetry while gelling back his hair.  Stiles thought a lot about what Derek did when he was alone.  He had theories.    

“Well, that sounds all find and dandy except for the part where the Band o’ Bangers, like most of the world, shouldn’t have been interested in my bod to begin with.  I got that little problem taken care of.  Nipped in the bud, if you know what I mean.”

The puppy whined and Derek scooped it closer to his chest, letting her burrow in the loose collar of his jacket.  

“Stop it.  You’re upsetting her.”

“Do you remember banging my head into a steering wheel?  That was upsetting too.” 

“She cuter.  And better behaved.”

“So you’re admitting that I have at least a baseline level of cute to compare to?” 

“I think,” Deaton said loudly, “I think that that is actually what we should be talking about.” 

“Wow, the only thing better than discussing my sex life with a voodoo vet is discussing my sex life with a voodoo vet and a werewolf that looks like he’s about to start lactating.  Seriously, man.  I’m having some cognitive dissonance with this image right now.”

“Why would they be interested him if he’s not a virgin?” Derek looked harassed and a little flushed, which was totally unfair because this situation felt like Derek was sitting in on his physical, or something.  Only Stiles had the right to be mortified.  

“It has to do with the definition of virginity,” Deaton said, popping a grape into his mouth, leaning one elbow on the broad, polished expanse of the kitchen island.  

“Oh, fuck this heteronormative, penetrative definition of sex!  Next time you and the occult overlords get together in a cave and sacrifice goats or whatever, you really need to update the Rules of Supernatural Bullshit to bring it into the 21st century.” Stiles ticked off fingers furiously.  “One, Penis plus Vagina isn’t the only definition of sex!  Two: Boys can have sex with boys and girls can have sex with girls!  I have proof, just ask the _whole fucking internet._   Three: My handjob in the back of the gay bar totally counted!”

“That was a lot of information,” Derek said after a pause.  

“Oh dude, you signed up for this when you swanned in on witch doctor-patient confidentiality time.”

“Stiles,” Deaton said, pulling an unlit, scented candle in front of him.  “Light that.”

Stiles snorted and blinked, and the wick flickered on like he’d flipped a switch, flaring up in bright reds and yellows before settling into a small, pleasant flame.  

“What does that have to do with anything?” His cheeks were flushed; Deaton and Derek were giving him long, steady looks.  

“I didn’t realize he’d gotten so --”

Deaton cut Derek off with a wave of his hand.  “We’ve been practicing.  _How_ did you do it?”

Stiles gave him a look.  “Dude, you showed me.  You just like, _will_ it.  Like with the mountain ash.  I just, whatever, believed I could do it.  And them some of that super annoying mind calming bullshit you showed me --”

“But the first thing, the very first thing you had to do was _believe_ it, right?  Believe you could do it?”

Stiles shrugged, chin stuck out straight, defensive.

“Well, I _believe_ I got my rocks off, so -”  

“And that’s what sex is, for you?” Deaton gave him that long, unblinking stare that brought back memories of his first, fumbling forays into meditation, the late nights he’d stayed up tracing and retracing runes, correcting angles under Deaton’s patient direction.  Deaton tipped his head.  “It’s not sex acts, Stiles.  It’s about _intimacy._ ”

“Intimacy,” Derek repeated, dead pan.

“At the turn of the century, an unmarried woman could be considered a harlot for having a man in her bedroom unchaperoned.  Showing one’s ankles was considered needlessly overly sexual.” Deaton shrugged eloquently.  “The definition of intimacy evolves with cultural mores.  If beliefs change, and magic is centered on belief...” 

“Oh, _Christ._ ” Stiles groaned, thumping his head soundly against his folded hands.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
  
“Guess getting your rocks off in the backroom doesn’t count.”  
  
“That is crude, Derek,” Stiles said, voice muffled.  “That is so vulgar.  What am I supposed to do?  Spread flower petals on the sheets?”

“...on the linoleum floor...”  
  
“Shut _up_ , Derek.”

Deaton shrugged again and gently lifted the puppy from Derek’s lap.  He gave them a small, implacable smile that made Stiles want to break his nose.  “It is what you make it, Stiles.  I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

***

 

The roof of Derek’s building was covered in small stones and only accessible up a narrow ladder and a trap door that probably should have been locked.  But, with the true ingenuity that came with eighteen year olds and testosterone, the pack had managed to gather a few chaise lounges and a fire pit on the western edge of the roof.

It was too cold to be up there, but Isaac had found some firewood, Erica turned up with steaks, and they’d all just finished submitting their college applications.  They deserved it, and Derek might roll his eyes and grumble about illegalities, but he was the one turning the steaks over the fire, nursing hot wine that Boyd had produced without explanation.  

Jackson started a macho shoving match with Scott over the music they were playing on tinny MacBook speakers, but even he was grinning, color in his cheeks, laughing wide and bright and uncomplicated at something Danny said.  

Stiles sat on the edge of the roof, a coffee mug of wine cupped in his hands.  The sun was setting in brilliant strokes of red and gold, leaving the town in cool shadows lit by occasional Christmas lights.  It was lovely, and the food and the booze were good, and Stiles should have been jumping around like a maniac, getting on Derek’s nerves and making an ass of himself.  

“You’re boring tonight,” Lydia said brightly.  She perched beside him on the roof, gorgeous in a matching hat and scarf, Burberry jacket cinched against the cold. She was a shoe in for Stanford, MIT, CalTech; they would end up fighting for her like a legion of men had done already in the fields and halls of Beacon High.  She refilled his mug from a thermos and stared at him until he squirmed.  Lydia didn’t dig around for gossip, she sat and looked expectant until it was handed to her on a silver platter.

 “What? Stop it.  Go away.  You’re making me itch.”

“You’ve been acting like a freak since you and Derek had a date at the Vet’s office, yesterday.  Not that you don’t usually act like a freak, you’re just usually more entertaining about it.”

“You, as always, are a gift and a delight.”

“Dish.  Quickly, before someone thinks I actually care.”

“You do care.  You care about my feelings and my special flower and my crazy, wrascally werewolf friends.”

“Yes, I’ve been keeping very well up to date with your feelings journal.  You’ll look beautiful on your wedding day, Mrs. Hale.”  
  
“I’m hoping I can still get away with white.”

“I’m just surprised he hasn’t got you bent over every--”

“Apparently to keep me safe from creatures of the night, present company excluded, I have to have a _meaningful sexual experience_.”  Stiles took a long, deep drink from his cup.

“Oh.” Lydia wrinkled her nose as if she’d stepped in something repugnant.  “Wait, what, really?”

Stiles shrugged and went on in a smaller voice.  “Apparently, all that matters _vis-a-vis_ virginity is how my own construct of sex and intimacy exists in my brain.  Which means that anonymous hand jobs in gay bars are probably out.”

“So, what?  You want flower petals and prom night and a mix tape?” She was almost laughing, her eyes dancing like he was building up to a punchline.  

“I - well.  I don’t know.  I haven’t really thought about it a lot -”  She snorted and rolled her eyes.  “Or well, you know, sure, sex, I’ve thought about sex a lot.  My house never has any hot water when I’m done showering.  It’s crossed my mind a lot.  But - intimacy?”  He shook his head tightly.  Intimacy went a lot farther than anonymous orgasms and the reptilian pleasure center of the brain that demanded them.  He glanced down at his knuckles, white around the mug, and then, quickly, to where Derek was flipping steaks, chuckling quietly at an arm wrestling match that had started between Boyd and Erica.  

“Oh.” Lydia was quiet for a moment. “You’re being serious, aren’t you.” 

“Like a heart attack.  Or a potentially deadly case of virginity that’s harder to get rid of than grease stains.” 

He looked over at her.  “Well?  Give it to me.  Call me a pussy or something.”  
  
“Pussies can squeeze a child into the world, proving themselves far more resilient and flexible than most men, so no, I won’t do you the honor.” She paused. “It’s...silly, Stiles.  It’s just sex.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to redefine yourself to get around uncomfortable situations.”

“I mean, it’s fun,” she allowed, looking out over the falling dusk.  “And, if I’m being honest, it’s a lot better with someone you’ve done it with a few times.”  
  
“Learning curve?” 

She shrugged.  “That.  And it’s more...comfortable.  You don’t feel like you’re going to make an ass out of yourself every time you move.  It’s easier to ask for what you want.  It’s...” She smiled, something small and private.  Pleased. “It’s nicer, with the same person.  Someone you know.”  
  
“Ugh, gross, you’re thinking about Jackson naked.” 

“He’s not so bad.  He takes direction.”  
  
“Please, please don’t repeat anything I’ve told you to him?  He’s got enough material to give me shit about straight through ‘til graduation.  He doesn’t need any more.”

“Jackson cried the first time we had sex,” she said in a whisper, grinning wickedly.  “He said that it was _beautiful_.  I held him in my arms.”  
  
“Did he tremble?”  
  
Lydia had proud tilt to her chin.  “Manfully.”

He laughed, brushing his elbow against hers.  The air tasted like ice and smelled of her perfume and Stiles wanted so badly to feel that worshipful desire that had burned in him for years, that had defined his puberty.  He reached for it, tried to call it up, but that place inside his breast bone was gone, now.  Gone, or filled with something different.  

“I would, you know.” Her voice was soft, gaze still lingering on the horizon.  “If it came to it, if you were in danger.” 

An unhappy smile slid across his lips.  “Hate to burst your bubble, Lyd,”

“Don’t call me that.”  


“-but I don’t think that a fuck or die scenario is going to fix this any more than handjobs.”

“What handjobs?” Derek rumbled, appearing beside them with a heavily burdened plate, steak done just the way Stiles liked it, french fries and coleslaw on the side.  He handed it over with probably more force than necessary, pressing cutlery and napkins into Stiles’ hands.

“I - no, no handjobs!  Theoretical handjobs only.  Useless, theoretical handjobs.”  
  
But Derek was already turning on his heel, stalking back to the grill fast enough that Isaac tripped over his own feet getting out of the way.

“Although,” Lydia murmured, looking significantly at Stiles’ plate and Derek’s retreating shadow, “Maybe a handjob with the right amount of _feeling_ would do the trick.”  

“Yeah, right, okay, sure, I’ll put that on the list next to Make Daenerys Targaryen Fall in Love With Me.”  


“Just a thought,” she said, standing with a sigh.  She paused before turning away, one manicured hand falling down onto his shoulder.  “Just, don’t over think it, Stiles.  You’re - not a totally irredeemable nerd.  You deserve good things.”  
  
“I tell myself that every morning in the mirror,” he muttered, cutting vengefully into the meat.  It was superbly tender, spiced with Worcestershire and sharp mustard, the perfect shade of pink at the center.  Probably Derek had let it go too long on the grill, everyone else took theirs still bloody, cold in the middle.  

Well, he thought, digging in, may as well be of use.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tra la la la la, I make things up about history, sometimes! I don't know as much about Victorian sexual mores as I should, but I hope it illustrated the point all the same. 
> 
> I also wanted to call this chapter Deaton is a Cryptic Dick. 
> 
> This fic is untouched by beta hands, so if you see something, please feel free to say something.


	7. what families do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not seen the 3rd season! I hear there's a lot of Derek whump, which is one of the best things about TW, so one of these days I'll watch it. Until then, enjoy the canon divergence.

 

Weeks slid by.  The relative quiet of Beacon Hills’ monster-of-the-week scene was probably largely to do with Derek beating his chest and pissing circles around his territory.  It was only a stop gap, though. 

“Even you are going to run out of Scary Alpha Piss sooner or later,” Stiles said, pushing the cart down the canned food isle.  His Thanksgiving shopping list was scrawled on the back of a scrapped lacrosse playbook.  They were only half way through the cornucopia of stuff necessary for a proper Stilinski Turkey Day and Derek was already getting twitchy about the crowds.  

“Jesus Christ, keep your voice down,” Derek grumbled, shouldering a muscular soccer mom out of the way so Stiles could grab the last of the canned yams.  

“Christ is Jesus,” Stiles said sweetly, swanning away to the displays of turkeys, so many turkeys.  “I think we should get five so your puppies don’t fight over drum sticks.”

“One turkey,” Derek said, his mouth twitching.  Stiles loved that twitch.  That twitch meant “don’t worry, the eyebrows of doom are just a front, covering my gooey and affectionate center.”  Stiles sighed deeply. 

As a compromise, Derek hefted the largest bird he could find into the cart.  “I think your dad has been through enough with us without having to witness an actual feeding frenzy.”

This was true.  Halloween had come with loads of treats, including some exciting holiday hijinks during which the entire pack lost the ability to shift and spent the night in wolfie-wolf form.  This would have been slightly less of an issue had they not all been in Stiles’ living room watching a black-and-white horror movie marathon when the lunar hiccup kicked in.  The sheriff, thankfully, did not keep his service revolver loaded on his nights off and, after a three-finger scotch and Melissa McCall’s stern reassurances that he wasn’t having a psychotic break, had come to some tentative peace with it.  

“I never got to see the end of The Mummy,” Stiles groused, putting his weight behind the cart.  

“Are you sure,” Derek said, while Stiles compared the relative cost of on or off label mushroom soup concentrate.  

“I’m sure, I’m sure, and watching Brendan Fraser hop around in leather pants and a revolver doesn’t count.  It’s nice, but it doesn’t count.”

Derek took a deep breath.  “About Thanksgiving.”

“What?  Yes, I’m sure, you pay the groceries, and me, Lydia, and Isaac will cook for the mongrel horde, why do you keep asking?”

“I mean, about.” He sighed, struggling.  “It’s for family, isn’t it?  Don’t you want time with you and the Sher- your dad?”

Stiles shook his head, studiously looking at dinner rolls.  They had done so many quiet dinners over the years, the sound of pre-cooked meals on cheap plates, the emptiness of the table, that yawning quiet that could never be filled by two male voices, not when a soft, alto timber was always associated with roasted turkey, grease-ladened stuffing, and dozens upon dozens of pies.  Stiles loved his father fiercely, but somewhere in his mind there was an aching stopwatch going: it’s been seven years since his mother was there at Thanksgiving.  Seven years since she, frail with sickness, had smiled rakishly at a crowded table and said that she was thankful for her boys, her men, and she held them in the warm curve of her hand, always had, always would.  

There was always a tally in Stiles’ head: how many first-days-of-school’s since, how many birthdays, how many winters.

“I know it’s...hard for him, with the, uh,” Stiles turned towards him and held two fingers in front of his canines and growled, “You know, weird shit and all but.” Stiles shrugged.  “He trusts you.  Or he wants to.”

He banked around a half-demolished display of festive, holiday squash, grunting with the effort.  Derek followed him like a ripped, glowering shadow.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s not thrilled that my _de facto_ after school job is being a research assistant for you idiots, but what can you do?  It keeps me off the streets.  Well, not really, it kind of keeps me in dark forests and creepy old houses, but streets?  Nope.  No streets. Well-lit streets with sidewalks, that’s definitely not our style.”

“Ugh, do you really need that much butter?” Derek muttered, watching Stiles tear through the dairy case.  

Stiles snorted.  “You dropkicked a harpie last week, I think you get to live dangerously.  Now come on, we still need breadcrumbs and whipped cream, pick up the pace.”

 

*

 

“Death by fooood,” Stiles said, flopping around uselessly until was he half-sprawled over Scott’s legs.  At the back of the yard, Boyd and Isaac were jumping around like maniacs, setting off a collection of maybe-illegal fireworks while Erica took pot shots at them with a Roman Candle.  With a groan, he lifted his head to shout out at them. “Hey!  Morons!  My dad is the Sheriff, remember?” 

Boyd took a running leap and took Isaac down at the knees, Erica piling on with a shriek of laughter.

Scott ruffled his hair absently, scrolling through his texts with his other hand.  “I think your dad bought those fireworks, dude.”

“Yeah, whatever, I’m just disgusted by this display of metabolism.  We just ate a metric fuckton of turkey and those guys are doing wolf-yoga like we just ate boiled kale and tea leaves.”

“Actually,” Scott said, turning his full attention on him for the first time since Allison texted him twenty minutes ago, “I could go for another round of pie.”

“You’re disgusting,” Stiles said, rolling to his feet, leaving Scott kicked back on the grass.  “I should help with the dishes, anyway.  Derek and my dad have been alone for twenty minutes and I haven’t heard screams.”  
  
“Derek wouldn’t hurt your dad.”

Stiles rolled his eyes hard.  “Yeah,” he called over his shoulder, “Cause _that’s_ what I’m worried about.”

Inside, the house held the lingering smell of rosemary and turkey.  The dining room table was only half cleared, pies plates scattered around, demolished.  There were a few food stains on the linen around Stiles’ place setting, smears of gravy, butter, he was a messy eater, always had been.  Derek, on the other hand, had been the picture of good manners. Sitting beside him, Derek had been stiffly formal, elbows off the table, eating like someone might sweep it all out from beneath if he strayed out of line.  He’d worn a tie.  He’d called Stiles’ dad Sir.  

Stiles ran his hand over the back of Derek’s empty chair, swallowing.  Derek, his shoulders hunched up, trying not to eat too much or too fast or too loudly, trying so damn hard to be normal. Derek, sitting between Boyd and Mrs McCall on the couch watching the Macy’s parade, looking bewildered at the pop stars crowding the floats.

_I don’t understand what Macklemore and the muppets have in common._

_Shut up, dude. Oscar totally rocks some second hand bling and you know it._

He looked up at the gentle clatter of dishes and FM radio from the kitchen, the rumble of voices in conversation.  He edged closer to the kitchen door, hesitating on the threshold, just out of sight.  Derek and his dad had done pretty good work on the dishes.  The dishwasher was humming contentedly and most of the destruction he’d wrought on the countertops was mopped up.    

“Thanks for the help, son.”  His dad had a dish towel thrown over one shoulder and was leaning back against the counter, a tumbler of scotch cupped loosely in his hand.

Derek had his shirt sleeves rolled up and had donned Stiles’ Iron Man apron.  His hair, which had looked _GQ_ perfect a few hours ago was hanging limply from the steam of woking over the sink.  He shrugged, deflecting, and raised a matching glass to clink against the Sheriff's.  

“I’m surprised it was so good.  When Stiles invited us I figured...Rice-a-Roni and corn dogs.”

His dad looked positively wistful.  “Nah, his mom was a whiz in the kitchen and he was always underfoot.  After she passed....” He let out a heavy breath.  “Just the two of us, he did a lot of the cooking.  Grew up fast.”  
  
He looked at Derek over his glass, “But then, you’d know a lot about that, too.”

“Yessir,” Derek said, practically military stature, thumbing his glass with damp hands.  

“Look, I been, uh.  Been meaning to offer my condolences.  For your sister.  And the, the fire  Everything else.” He held up a hand to ward off Derek’s automatic protest. “I used to jog with your dad, once in a while, up in the reserve.  Stiles’ mom took your mom’s kickboxing course down at the community center.” He laughed, “If she was around to find out you guys were - were _werewolves_ she’d feel a lot better about never being able keep up.”  
  
A ghost of a smile and Derek nodded, his chin tucked down against his chest. “Thank you.  Sir.”

“Stiles is eighteen,” the sheriff said mildly, but Derek went tense, hunching up further against the counter.  Stiles’ heart kicked hard in his chest.

“Uh, yeah, the pack took over my apartment for his birthday party.”  He looked deeply troubled for a moment.  “They brought pin the tail on the donkey.  And an ice cream cake.  Is that normal, for teenagers?”  
  
“For these teenagers?  Sure.”  His dad topped up his glass from the decanter on the side board and splashed another inch into Derek’s glass, who certainly looked like he needed it.  “Like I said, Stiles grew up fast.  And I’m not blind and I’m not stupid, but-”

“I wouldn’t,” Derek said quickly, knuckles white on the glass.  Stiles closed his eyes, sucked in a ragged breath, because of course, he knew that.  The sudden, blooming ache tugging at his mesentery was absurd.  He was eighteen, wise-assed, and Derek had been through so much, had been so strong.  Derek washed up on shore after every wreck, despite odds.  He drove Erica to Planned Parenthood for birth control, showed Isaac how to rebuild an engine, had walked Boyd through the Honors Chemistry classes he was taking down at the community college.  He did enough for everyone else and had dealt with enough impossible things for a life time.  

“Hmm,” the Sheriff said, and he shrugged, ice clinking in his glass.  He tipped back a long swallow and seemed to take pity on him.  “C’mon,” he said, slapping Derek on the shoulder, “Lets go make sure they haven’t set the neighbor’s house on fire, whaddaya say?”

Stiles fled.

 

*

 

There had been a night, not long after Halloween, when they finally stumbled on a nest of river harpies, the cave thick with the stench of carrion, guano, dried and clotted blood.  They were awful things, bat-winged abortions that killed and left the meat to rot, fouled the waters deep the the reserve.  They’d expected one, maybe two adults, but not a mated pair and a nest full of shrieking, horrifying spawn.  Mothers’ instincts were mothers’ instincts, no matter how monstrous the brood, and the attack, when it came, had been sudden and viscous.  

Stiles, for once, had escaped unharmed, just his arm hair singed where he’d used aerosol bug spray and a lighter to wipe out the nest.  The pack was limping, Isaac carrying Boyd over one shoulder, Erica gasping with pain every time she had to put weight on her ankle.  But Derek had taken the worst of it, had acted the bait, drawn off the attack, and gotten clawed deep in his chest, yellow-white bone showing through, gasping and puking up awful, bilious sputum, his skin cold and damp where Stiles help him up.  

“Dad,” Stiles choked out, letting Derek lean against him in the back of the cruiser, “Dammit, drive faster - “  
  
“It’s a service road, Stiles - I can’t just -”  It was the sheriff's first outing with the pack, and he was starting to lose it, gagging at the smell of whatever the Hale boy was bringing up in the back of the car, that would take weeks to get ride of, _dammit_ werewolves, of all the things -

“Stiles,” Derek said, once, twice, over and over again, his voice reedy, panicked.  In the rearview mirror, the Sheriff watched him lift his arms, moving them like they were too heavy and lacked any fine motor control, reaching up to touch Stiles’ face, patting the side of his cheek.  “You - you’re, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said, “Dammit, Derek, don’t pass out, we’re almost to the clinic, I swear -”  
  
“You’re okay,” Derek said, voice heaving with relief, eyes wild and wet, rapidly searching Stiles’ face, voice thick with delirium, pain.  “Oh, thank god, I couldn’t - if you -”

The Sheriff had looked away, then, focused on tearing through the dirt back roads, counting down the miles to the veterinary clinic.  He looked away, breathed deep, and flipped on the sirens.   

Maybe later he’d have time to think.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> 01-18-2014 this work is still alive, I promise. Real life's a bitch, but this does live on in the confines of my own mind.
> 
> In fact, I'm thinking of starting an AU (only after this story is done, I swear), but you can find my incoherent ramblings on tumblr at allthingsmustfall.
> 
> You guys are lovely. All the oceans of my love.


End file.
